


condemn me to burning shores

by nightingalesdonotsing (songbirdonvoyage)



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Age Changes, Alternate Universe - Hunger Games Setting, Blood and Gore, Canon-Typical Violence, Dreams, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Manipulation, Murder Family, Slow Build, Victor Hannibal Lecter, Victor Will Graham
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-28
Updated: 2019-05-28
Packaged: 2020-03-26 11:04:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,010
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19004473
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/songbirdonvoyage/pseuds/nightingalesdonotsing
Summary: A Tribute. A Victor. A Mentor.Nothing could have prepared Will Graham for Abigail Hobbs' reaping for the Games.Nothing could have prepared Will Graham for Hannibal Lecter's offer to help.





	condemn me to burning shores

**Author's Note:**

> _Take it to the heart, and wash it out_   
>  _Go back to the start, it's raging now_   
>  _Be a better fighter, lover, oh please_   
>  _I don't want you to break me down._

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The 75th Hunger Games had begun.

.

.

.

  


Drowning was a common theme in his dreams.

For a moment Will just sunk into the unyielding embrace—he had always loved how everything was silent underwater, only his own heartbeat thrumming in his ears. White rays permeated through the rippled surface, he wasn't sure whether it was from the sun or moon—day or night, it was always dark around him.

He had not tried to reach out for the light. This time, he would not try it either.

He felt the sharp pressure on his body, antlers yielding blood on broken skin. His fingers brushed all over, touching, feeling. It was not a struggle against his perpetrator. He only wanted to know, to have intimate knowledge about it.

The creature stirred, cold air heaved through its nostrils dissipated the red, smearing it everywhere like spilled paint. Its tongue licked through his fresh wounds like a mother tending to its child. Torn flesh revealing bones and sinews but he felt no pain, only a sense of inexplicable wonder.

He ran out of air already, the creature had made sure of that.

When he woke up to his dogs sleeping on his king-sized bed, the sheets were relatively dry from the usual cold sweat.

He felt calm.

He even remembered himself smiling.

 

 

* * *

 

Fishing had always relaxed Will. It was different from the massive scale of catch that all of them were trained to do since young. Nonetheless, it was always a luxurious affair to sneak out to a quiet spot and bide his time with mere rod and bait, and now that was even more so considered he no longer had a need to follow everyone's schedule.

Old habits die hard, and he never intended to let his habits die out and be replaced any time soon.

He gathered up all the necessities and waited outside for his fishing partner. His dogs were already fed and brushed for the day. The early signs of dawn were still vague across the cloudless sky. It would be a sunny day today. 

When he saw a silhouette walking towards the Victor's Village, all bright and clear against the stretch of horizon, he rose from the hammock. She waved at him, he swallowed the swell bubbled in his chest and waved back at her.

"Morning, Will."

"Morning, Abigail."

He gave her an obvious appraisal at her outfit—a head-to-toe fishing gear completed with the vest he gifted her last birthday—and nodded appreciatively. She huffed a laugh at him.

After Abigail finished ruffling his dogs, they walked down to their destination, passing through vacant shells of beautiful houses that would not be occupied any time soon. Will did not forget to pass her his home-made sandwich—a simple tuna spread with herb-infused sour cream and a pinch of salt.

"I see a new face in the crowd," she spoke in between delicate bites, careful not to stain anything with the generous spread of condiment.

"His name is Winston." Will munched through his own portion of breakfast. "Wandered into my house one night. Took him a while to blend in with the pack."

Her glance wandered to her back, his house gradually fading from sight. Sometimes, one of them—usually Max with an occasional appearance from Zoe—would follow along for a stroll. Today, all of them were content in lounging around the porch for a lazy morning.

A reassuring smile. "I'll take care of them until you're back."

He conjured up an image of Abigail asleep in the living room, the pack huddled around her in a mass of fur and cozy warmth. He tucked it into the depths of his memories.

"Thank you, Abigail," he said. "Remind me to tell you where their food is."

"Bottom left shelf at the kitchen counter." Abigail gave him a look that could only be described as preposterous. "You don't always feed them dry kibbles. You bathe them once a week, but you comb them twice a week at least."

"The recipe for the wet food, alright?" He was surrendering already. "You'll need it."

Abigail looked pleased and proud of herself.

The location they were heading was a jetty at the end of the Village, built on a small cape overseeing the gulf near to the coastline. The Capitol had the Victors' leisure activities in mind when the Village was constructed, but all of them were too busy looking after their own demons to enjoy the facility. It was left mostly untouched to this day.

"So, how's school?"

"You know, the usual." She clapped her hands to brush off the crumbs to the ground. "We had our exam last week."

"How did you score?"

She shrugged. "Does it really matter? We are all going to be fishermen anyway."

Will remembered how she perched on the bay window seat, poring over her textbooks on a Saturday night. He decided not to mention it.

"How are the Boyles doing?"

"Doing great, business's booming." The Boyles was always an easier topic between them. "I've started to help out at the eatery. "

The Boyles' eatery was located right opposite of the port, a strategic location for hungry customers after a long day of grueling work. No one would raise an eyebrow at their questionable ingredients—namely the purported 'sea catch of the day', it was always hearty and warmed their stomachs. Sufficient, if not adequate.

"You can cook us a meal next time," he prodded.

"It would never be as good as Mrs. Wells'," she replied. "Her clam chowder is really delicious."

The set-up went on without a hitch. Will handled the assembly of their equipment while Abigail worked on laying out the supplies on their chosen spot. They had been careful in dodging the crumbling wood structure and remained at a safer, sturdier spot. The expanse of the jetty would have been breathtaking if it was not due to its gradual descent into disuse.

The coastline was empty, a drastic contrast from the usual bustling port. Fishing boats swayed back and forth like cradles lulling the town into a much-needed sleep. The sea was calm, a mirror reflection of the fair weather they were blessed for today.

His stare was fixated on somewhere further, impassive.

The residents would gaze at the Village every day—a beacon reminding them there might be hope after all. He would gaze right back at them—a lighthouse that had seen better days and too malfunctioned for any practical purposes.

He squinted as though the sunlight was hurting his eyes.

Abigail was fiddling with her fishing rod. "Now that I remember..." She noted, not without a hint of amusement. "Your choice of talent is fishing."

A scoff, then a quick rummage through his toolbox. "No, my talent is..." He brandished his latest work, fluorescent orange and yellow glinting between his fingers. "The delicate art of making fly-fishing bait."

Abigail was not impressed.

"No one in the Capitol would want to see them," she said. "Considering they already looking like one."

Will could not help laughing. He still managed to finish his knot and murmured a word or two at the bait, as though he was baptizing it for its first sail.

Abigail eyed his gesture in reflective silence. She only spoke up after they finished casting their lines into the water. "Isla."

"Yes, Isla." The deity of District 4. The name everyone chanted when they seek protection from a higher power before a sea voyage, before a bountiful catch, or practically anything. "Do they teach her at school?"

She shook her head.

Of course not. "The official version is that she is a deity protecting the people of the sea."

Will proceeded to tell her a story that the Capitol would not like to hear about.

The name Isla was popularized after the death of District's 4 very first female Tribute. It was her final word before she jumped off from a cliff, and it was the first move she did in the Arena. Since then the Capitol was extra vigilant with Tributes taking fate into their own hands. The ripples she created had taken a life greater than hers, making its way into generations of prayers, a tradition passed down only by word of mouth.

This was one of the haunted stories that were popular amongst the Victors. Each District had its own and this was District 4's. They were nice distractions to be shared during sleepless nights, a welcoming reminder that there were unspeakable tales outside of their own.

Naturally, the mention of death by suicide interested a few Victors. Price and Zeller went through a few months of extensive research for the ghost of a bygone legend, almost risking Capitol's intervention. It turned out there was a sorry excuse for a recording existed somewhere in the forgotten archives. The few of them watched it together after a night of excessive drinking and dead Tributes.

If the omnipresent static and poor resolution were not off-putting enough, the lack of any discernible dialogue most certainly was. The alcohol certainly helped to gloss through the majority of the Games. Regardless, Will remembered how her expression stood out even amongst the pixelated mess. It was not one of resignation. She was resolute, she was heading off to her triumphant end.

He found himself holding his breath when she came to a splattered fall. He would not even need to hear the word. He knew it already.

"Well." The corner of Abigail's lips twitched. "Maybe she wasn't calling out for anyone, you know." She had the decency to contain a full-on sacrilegious laugh against the gods, at least.

His face lit up in comprehension. "Ahhh," he dead-panned, letting his knees almost hitting the ground, hand on his chest for a show. Their fishing lines seemed to waver with the dramatics. "Like this, you mean?"

She snickered. "Isla. Sounds similar, right?" 

"We wouldn't know." He brought himself upright, adjusting his askew rod into position. "As long as you believe in the name, it will give you power."

"Do you believe in her?"

"I don't see believing in her helped me in any way."

He watched Abigail's line twitched. 

"Whose name did you cast your bait upon, then?"

The question was answered only by the early summer breeze.

 

 

* * *

 

After a total of one sea bass for the haul, they decided to call it a day.

She bid him goodbye and he walked himself back to the Village.

Will had asked her to stay with him at the Village and Abigail would not accept the offer. He would not want to push another invitation on her yet again.

Despite his initial disappointment, he was glad that she enjoyed staying in near proximity of the Boyles and the Shurrs. It was important she stayed close with her peers, he thought.

He trudged his way into his house and up the stairs to the bathroom. He was in need of a shower so he took a long one until his fingers were pruned. With a towel wrapping around his waist and a reluctant heart, he walked into his bedroom. He had been avoiding the set of custom-made suit hung on his closet for all week long. Today would be the day he would need to face it up front.

His stylist had always been insistent about fitting him in blue. On days when she was merciful, it would be the darker shades. Otherwise, it would be turquoise or god forbid, anything with glitter.

Today he would be donning a navy blue suit with a powder blue shirt for the occasion. The Windsor knot for his grey tie vaguely felt like a tightening noose. He looked himself in the mirror and took a deep breath, resisting the urge to down a glass of whiskey for his teetering nerves.

He walked to his only surviving neighbor's house, feeling the brand new leather shoes creaking on every step he took. It was three blocks away from his. After a few knocks on the door, he walked in without waiting for a response.

"Good afternoon," he announced.

Mrs. Wells was seated on the sofa at the living room, deft hands weaving silk and long grass into an intricate handiwork of fishing net. She was a picture of composure that Will never seemed to be able to evoke.

"I smell fresh catch on you." She always had the uncanny ability to recognize someone's presence without looking. "Had a nice morning with Abigail, dare I say."

"Nothing much really. Only a sea bass." He took a considering glance at the well-worn shawl on the coffee table. Mrs. Wells had also brought out the bracelet given to her by the late Mr. Wells. She only wore them on special days. "We wrapped it up earlier for today." He fetched them over for her.

"A nice fish stew is what it is," she said. "You and Abigail owe me a dinner at my place."

"She told me she missed your cooking." He considered the black and brown loafers on the shoe rack, choosing the latter one to match with her turquoise skirt. When he showed them to her, it earned him a nod. "Especially your clam chowder."

"Ought to ask her over someday." A final snip on the thread and it was done. "The house's awfully quiet without her." She removed the glasses perching on her nose, a satisfied smile rose to her exhausted features. It was her gift to the Reed's and she had pulled an all-nighter to finish it by today.

"We will have time after the Games." He knelt down in front of the sofa, propping her legs up on the low stool.

Defiance grew tough in her backbone, if not her paralyzed legs. If anyone had the opportunity to fix themselves in the Capitol, it would be Mrs. Wells. She never accepted the offer, and he very well understood why.

"It sure is a nice thing to look forward to." Her gaze was unwavering as he fitted the loafers on her calloused feet.

Will allowed himself to indulge in the image of them over at Mrs. Wells' place preparing a nice dinner. The air was fragrant with the smell of fish stew simmering away on the kitchen stove. The house was warm with glowing coals in the fireplace and the rain, ceaseless yet gentle, blurred the sea into a blotted-out grey through the windows.

"Yeah, that would be nice."

He carried her in his arms and gingerly laid her down in the wheelchair. She weighted lighter than the last time he held her. He made mental note of joining her for more meals.

"Don't you look dashing in your suit." Her smile was tender, welcoming. "Give this old lady a smile, will you?"

And he did.

 

 

* * *

 

He took a longer route to the square. If Mrs. Wells realized it, she did not speak anything about it.

The square's bright blue banners, the escort's sparkling blue dress, and the Mayor's solemn blue ensemble--it always reminded him of a wake. Despite his mandatory blue suit, he was always the incongruous part of the whole deal with his unkempt hair and clumsy glasses. He fully reveled in such a fact.

Mrs. Wells patted his hand. They continue to move forward.

Amongst the sea of familiar faces, he spotted Abigail standing right beside Marrisa Shurr. Her yellow dress reminded him of sunset—its rays reflected a golden wash on her pale skin. She looked radiant.

The crowd's chatter died down to a hushed silence as they made their way to the stage area. The Peacekeepers offered help for Mrs. Well, but his outstretched hand spoke volume of his answer. They backed off and let him carry her onto the stage.

After Mrs. Wells was settled in her assigned seat, he sat on his, thankful that it was further off the stage's center. To say that he was not good with the crowd was a gross understatement. After a few years of annual return to the television, he eventually developed a system. Others called it a coping mechanism, he otherwise disagreed.

Will closed his eyes and the pendulum's weight submerged him into the safe womb of frigid seawaters.

The Mayor's speech was rehashed every year for the same crowd, because why bother when it would be the last speech for two children every year. Every syllabus was muffled, his plump lips move about like a goldfish.

District 4's new escort was all ready for her first rodeo, fingers inlaid with gold eagerly skirting the glass bowls' edges. She introduced herself to the unenthusiastic crowd, then waved to the camera trained at the stage. He turned his shoulder towards the lens to shield his remaining privacy.

The escort decided to start with the male Tribute. It had been an arduously slow season for the past few months, evident in the alarming amount of entries in the bowls. Abigail never had the need to take any tesserae—Will himself had made sure of that. A few moments of combing through the glass bowl for suspense, a paper slip was drawn and the name was called.

District 4 managed their emotions like the sea herself—calm and collected above the turmoil. No applause, no salute or hand gestures of any kind. They watched the boy—not all well-fed and physically fit—walked up to the podium in conspicuous bravery, if it was not betrayed by his trembling fingers hidden deep in his trousers' pockets. Will did not hear his name, there would be plenty of time later.

Then, the hand that dictated all odds dipped into the female Tribute's bowl.

The collective gasp that the crowd did not manage to hold back was deafening, like a gunshot.

Will's head was yanked up to the surface. He choked in painful gulps of air before the reality dawned on him.

It was Abigail Hobbs.

Mrs. Wells hid her face in clenched palms.

Abigail's face—no longer basking in warm light—was ashen, muted horror written all over like black and blue marks.

Then, he drowned.

**Author's Note:**

> Work Title : Take It To The Heart - Odette  
> Chapter Title : Ship To Wreck - Florence and the Machine  
> _____
> 
> Stressed out with my exams, so yeah, this is my kind of remedy. 
> 
> There's quite a few Hannibal/THG crossover fics. I decided to give it a go despite so. Both series have a special place in my heart, so it's fun to plan and write it really.
> 
> The tags will be edited as the story goes.


End file.
